


Romantic Drivel

by orphan_account



Series: Very Sincerely, Yours [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unilock, Unrequited Love, love letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock writes a letter to John explaining himself as best as Sherlock knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romantic Drivel

Dear John,

                We met three months ago and you probably remember me. I was showing off a bit so that you would notice me. Lestrade informed it was immature, but I have been told that I can be rather immature too often to take him seriously. It’s a slanderous lie, although it is proving itself useful in this situation. I can blame my behavior on my immaturity rather than the real source of it.

                I was the odd boy who spewed off your life story to you after a glance. Do you remember me, John? Did I leave an impression of any longevity in your life? I tend to be remembered well by most people actually. They think I’m a bastard, arrogant, annoying, cold, aloof, etc. Please don’t misunderstand me and assume I’m bothered by this. The fact is that I dislike most people because they’re stupid, so I don’t mind when they dislike me.

                I met you three months ago, though and wanted you to like me. Or at the very least I wanted you to not actively dislike me. Do normal people experience that? Is that why everyone always seems frantic to ‘make a good impression’? How hideous. We met the night we did because Lestrade dragged me to some horrible club with loud music, sweat, drinking, and salsa dancing. You were a part of the group and Lestrade introduced us at the dinner before, when the club was still a restaurant. The last thing I wanted was to spend time with any of Lestrade’s irritating friends in a salsa club.

                Then my eyes connected with your navy ones and… and everything slotted into place. I am not a romantic, John (though you are). Love is not a concept I have ever approved of or entirely believed in. The chemistry of attraction I understand fine. The sentimentality? Not so much. Love at first sight has always been an abhorrent idea to me. As though one could meet a person and feel some ‘deep emotional connection to their soul’. Or whatever drivel morons seem to always believe. Even as I sit here, writing this absurd letter, I find myself skeptical of my feelings. Then I remember you and the torrent of emotions swells inside myself again.

                Because when our eyes met, John Watson, I felt a piece of myself uncoil. A part of my mind suddenly stopped flashing along, paused in the act of observing to simply look at you. That has never happened to me before. I felt a sudden and violent urge to get to know you. I observe and deduce so many things about each person I meet or see, but you were the first I actually wanted to _know_.

                It was my uncertainty with this new occurrence that made me voice my deductions. Lestrade had made me promise that I would keep my mouth shut but I didn’t with you. I wanted you to know right away who I was. The obnoxious boy who’ll reveal your life’s secrets without a second thought. I was desperate to sever the supposed connection I felt to you. Except. Oh god, except. You weren’t angry with me – well, probably you were a bit – but you _smiled_ at me after I finished and told me I was _brilliant_.

                For a moment I thought about hitting you. Then I realised that I would rather kiss you, so I said something rude to Anderson. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember the way you laughed. The way your eyes sparkled at me even as you told me that was a bit not good. Did you know your eyes sparkled, John Watson? Did you mean for me to see that sparkle or was it an accident? If I asked would you look at me that way again? No, never mind. Don’t answer that.

                Was there ever anything as tedious as Lestrade’s insipid friends trying to get me to learn to salsa? I loathed their attempts because I simply wanted to watch you dance. If you had asked I would have danced with you. That alarmed me so I refused to speak to you for the rest of the night. It was fairly easy since you spent the bulk of the evening on the dance floor with a variety of women. I was seething with jealousy. Do you have any idea how idiotic that was of me? You were just some boy I had met, but every time one of those faceless girls touched you I felt territorial. Again, this alarmed me. It was particularly idiotic because you are a _terrible_ salsa dancer. Horrifically bad.

                I was trained professionally in ballet, (which is actually something I’d prefer you keep to yourself, considering most people mock me when they learn that) but I know how to dance most dances. Would you let me teach you to dance, John? I could teach you to lead or I could lead you. Normally I prefer to lead because I don’t relish taking orders from anyone in any form. To spend time with you I would let you lead me, John. That is revoltingly romantic, isn’t it? Oh wait, there's more. I have imagined us dancing so often that it’s almost a forced memory. The brain works in funny ways.

                When the evening ended I was relieved to get away from your unsettling you-ness. I stayed up all night thinking of you, replaying every moment together, every movement, and every connection of eyes. I was attempting to work on an experiment, so you can imagine the inconvenience you caused me. Somehow I found myself not minding. Then I threw a beaker against the wall for not minding. I don’t do romance or politeness or even usually basic decency, so people don’t like me. I’m used to it. The idea of you becoming my new obsession just to find out you thought me a freak was unacceptable. I tried to expunge you from my mind.

                When Lestrade invited me to his the next day for a movie I accepted. That may seem like an unimportant and trivial fact but in the three years I’ve been at uni with Lestrade, I have never accepted that invitation. You were why I did, though. Lestrade listed your name in the attendees and my mouth was agreeing before my brain could list all the reasons to decline. John, you made me lose control of my brain. That is the most flattering thing I can think to say to any person.

                Before going I had resolved not to talk to you. I still had the irrational desire to get to know you – your thought pattern, your habits, your lies, your pet peeves, your pointless childhood stories, your opinions – but I had decided to avoid that. It would be enough to simply look at you. Of course I arrived early to Lestrade’s because I like harassing him. He has told me that that makes me a bad friend, but he hasn’t told me to stop. While I was there he rambled on and I ignored him until he said your name. He mentioned vaguely that you were going through hard times (cancer ridden mother to add to your money woes). Then he said that he and Molly were trying to set you up with that tedious Sarah girl from the night before.

                My stomach did an unpleasant… thing and I worried for a moment that I had contracted a deadly disease. Well, I say worry but I think it would be fascinating to study the effects said disease would have on my body. Not the point, though. After I realised that I was disappointed that you hadn’t been brought for me, I was appalled. How could I have let myself become so emotional over some stupid boy I had just met and barely spoken to? Then I was glad to hear you were meant for Sarah. She’s tedious but she’s also normal and mildly less stupid than some others. Plus, she’s a med student so there is that in common for you! I decided it was a very good match and promptly put any absurd thoughts of yourself and myself out of my mind.

                 Your jumper was ridiculous, John. It makes you look like a father not a uni student. I loved it. Do you realise how stupid that is? Your sodding jumper was horrible and I _loved_ it. Worse, you smiled at me again and chatted pleasantly with me. What is wrong with you? Don’t you know people don’t do that with me? That was the moment I realised there were suddenly two categories in life. Because of you there was the Stupid Things People Do category and the Stupid Things John Does category.

                When Sarah and the others arrived you chatted politely with them too. I did not. I hate them and they hate me so I stayed in the kitchen. Molly stayed too. Contrary to popular opinion I don’t hate her. She fancied me freshman year, which was undeniably stupid of her, so I was a bit meaner and sharper than necessary to quash that. She is now happily dating my brother. I find this offensive, although I would find anyone dating my brother offensive because, in general, Mycroft is offensive. Molly is intelligent enough and (as much as it pains me to admit it) Mycroft gives her more confidence. So I don’t mind talking to her, especially since she’s on her way to becoming a decent pathologist. I stayed away so you could ‘put the moves’ on Sarah, or whatever it is people say.

                I don’t attend movie nights at Lestrade’s because, in addition to hating his friends, he always picks stupid movies. Then people get angry when I comment on how horrible they are. You sat beside me, by some twist of fate, and chuckled at my comments. Do you remember what I said, John? Did you know how you were making me feel? Was the warm, happy feeling you inspired obivious to you? It felt obvious.

                After the movie ended the others started drinking so I decided it was time for me to leave. I had seen you, which was the only thing I had wanted to accomplish, and there was nothing keeping me there. Then you handed me a drink, smiling at me again, and I stayed. Talking to you made me feel soft, as though all my sharp edges smoothed out into something acceptable. I wanted to curl against you and your ridiculous jumper and just let you smooth me out more. Horrifying and disgusting, but accurate. When Sarah approached us I realised that I had monopolized you. I wondered if Sarah and you knew how badly I wanted you all to myself.

                Instead of leaving, like a sane person would have done, I brought up classes. The collective groan of the flat was not especially reassuring as the future generation of professionals. You grinned though and said you were having some trouble still with remembering the names of ligaments. Everything else you had been taught you were learning well enough and it was just names of ligaments you had trouble with. It was a stupid thing to have trouble with and I told you so. I said you needed more practical application.

                The marker you used to write the ligaments of the hand on my hand stained me for a week. I was careful not to dirty them overly-much or scrub them. Every time I saw your writing on me I got a fuzzy feeling. You knew the ligaments very well, John, which made me think for a moment – second – that you had been flirting with me. Then I realised you were showing off for Sarah. I scrubbed the writing off after that.

                It wasn’t until a month later that we met again. That’s not to say you were never in my thoughts. You were my constant companion in my mind during that month. I was half delusional with thoughts of your smile at me, and the sparkle in your eye, and the witty comments you made. Did you ever think of me, John? Was there ever a moment when you wondered what that madman that Lestrade knew was doing? I would give so much to be a moment in your thoughts. In a moment I would slip through your mind, touch it, memorise it, cherish it, and probably marvel at its lack of depth. The last one mostly because I think it would make you grin.

                When we met a month after you wrote on me, it was at a special lecture on new alternatives to blood transfusions in surgery. You sat beside me, wearing a slightly less awful cardigan, and smiled. I realised with that smile, when I felt my brain pause to look at you, that I loved you. It was a lowering thought, the idea that I had succumbed to sentiment. So then I hated you. We talked about the lecture briefly afterwards before you had to leave to get to your shift at work. I enjoyed talking to you, John. Did you enjoy talking to me?

                We haven’t seen one another since but you have been in my mind the entire time. It’s pathetic because we’ve met three times and I think about you all the time. I have considered inveigling myself into your life countless times. I never do because I dread you hating me. I dread your lovely John Watson smile fading into a sneer. I’ve tricked you, somehow, into thinking I’m worthy of that smile. I don’t know how to keep the trick going though.

                I have considered becoming ‘more normal’ in an attempt to deserve you. The things is, I’m not very good at normal. I don’t even particularly like normal because it’s boring and there are so many interesting things to think about. I did try to be normal for you. For the memory of you I keep safely tucked in my mind. I have broken a considerable number of equipment in my frustration over you. The damage you have caused should be flattering to you. All it took was three meetings and I was obsessed.

                (Also, your social media accounts reveal an alarming amount of information about you so you may want to privatize those. Just a suggestion from someone who has done a bit of web stalking. No, it’s fine. I know it’s odd.)

                I suppose the real question is: why am I writing this? Especially now? Those are simple enough to answer. You see, I never intended to tell you that I have fallen forcefully and irritatingly in love with you. However Lestrade mentioned that you were shipping out soon and panic gripped me. A very selfish and self-centered panic that you would die never knowing. I don’t expect you to come to some grand revelation that you love me too. I don’t expect anything from you. No acknowledgement or rejection or anything. Silence on the whole letter thing would be appreciated.

                Still, I wanted you to know – for some inexplicable reason – that I would think of you still. Despite the distance and the war zone I will think of you. I will wonder about you, worry about you, and perhaps even pray for you. That last one is a stretch. Actually, it was mostly romantic drivel. I’ll think, wonder, and worry but no praying. Anyway, please don’t die because I would like to obsess over you for years to come. That will be so much easier if you are alive.

                Thank you.

 

 

Very Sincerely,

S. Holmes

 


End file.
